


The Beautiful Dawn

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Casablanca (1942)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2004-12-18
Updated: 2004-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:58:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1632716
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a bit of derivative fan fiction extrapolated from and set during the film.  To better integrate the ongoings, some action and dialogue is taken directly from the film.  Since it is one of the best known movies ever made, and attempting to plagiarize it would be about equivalent to trying to pawn the Mona Lisa, I didn't see any reason to offset quotes in any special way.<br/>Oh, and to Ellen: you were always in safe hands.  Ilsa was my first girl crush (well maybe tied with Kelly of <i>Charlie's Angels</i>) and it would never in a gazillion years have crossed my mind to make fun of her.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Beautiful Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Ellen Fremedon

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

_Well, Rick is the kind of man that.... Well, if I were a woman--and if_ **I** _were not around--I should be in love with Rick._

_\--Louis Renault to Ilsa Lund,_ Casablanca

 

* * *

 

Night is my favorite time in Casablanca. At night one can almost forget that this is Africa. When darkness wraps the city and the rest of the world in her cloak of homogeneity, this could be almost anyplace.

At night, I could even be back home in Toulon.

At night I can I sit outside in quiet and imagine myself in the corner bistro I used to frequent before the war--before both wars--back when I could afford to feel whatever it was that moved me. I can look up and see the twinkle of the same stars and moonbeams that shine on that bistro in Toulon. The sky connects me to my home and my past in a way I cannot explain. I feel the cool breeze from off the ocean, newly blown down from Europe, and let it sing to me its song of France as she is now and of happier times that existed there once not so very long ago.

I am not an emotional man, but there is something about one's home that is simply in the blood.

It's nighttime, and I think it's time for me to go outside.

The crowd parts for me as I knew it would. If I am to be precise, it parts for the police uniform, but these days we are one and the same. Rick's cafe is full, as it is every night. Rick is naturally born to succeed at anything he tries. This is what makes his military history so surprising: Ethiopia and the Spanish Loyalists? He must have seen those lost causes for what they were, and yet he threw in his service. It makes me wonder what it was he really wanted out of both.

After almost a year and a half, Rick remains an enigma to me.

Sascha sees me approaching the bar and pulls down a cordial glass. It will be aged Armagnac for me tonight, I think. I drink only the best when I have no intention of paying the bill. With that thought, I take the bottle with me as well. I head outside to the front patio, determined to enjoy the night.

I am not the only one who will.

Rick will be out eventually. He comes outside every night to smoke and to stare at the sky. Upon occasion he will time it so as to watch the plane to Lisbon. More often he just watches the night, but he always comes out eventually.

I often wonder what it is that he thinks about, but I do not delude myself that it is me.

The bistro table scrapes the stone as I pull it back behind the door. I position my chair with a good view of the entrance, but deep within the shadows. There are no searchlights in Toulon--at least there were not when I left--and the continuously circling airport beam jeopardizes my fantasy.

I have considered ordering the airport light turned off in between flights, but as I said, this is just a fantasy and fantasies are not long lived in war.

The glass has a comforting feel beneath my fingers: round and smooth in the bowl tapering down to the long and slender stem. I wonder if Rick chose the glassware himself. I suspect that in private, the man is rampant sensualist. It something about his fingers and the way he holds his hands. The hands do tell so much.

The Armagnac is warming in my palm and releases its familiar smell. I take a sip, a small one; it may well be a long wait.

It isn't. Rick comes out shortly with a weary look on his face and his arms full of a sotted Yvonne.

I have never given much thought to the war. Mostly, I think about myself. The war has brought me advantages, luxuries, women--but I do not particularly care for what the war has done to women.

Oh, they are still plentiful enough--perhaps even more so with the men being marched from their homes or killed. It is not the numbers that are problematic, but the way that the women become transformed.

Women blow into Casablanca like autumn leaves fallen from the tree: yellow and withered, lost and loose. Sometimes they drift with children, parents or husbands swirling around them, but these are desperate times. It is every man--and every woman--for herself.

One may rake up all that one cares to, but none are ever as sweet and fresh as they were in spring. The war slowly dries them out replacing full curves with sharp lines, sweet voices with acid tongues, and gentle nurturing natures with an all-consuming desperation to survive the coming winter at any cost.

It is happening to Yvonne before our eyes. She is becoming thick about the middle in that way that comes from more from drink than from food, and the once sultry swell of her lips is stiffening into a permanent pout.

If Rick is through with her, I wouldn't mind plucking her once before she falls all the way, but clearly I would have to make it quick.

She trips as he hustles her to the street. She has a nice derriere--although I am not overly selective in that arena--but I find myself watching Rick's instead.

He has a style I have to admire. He moves with a self-assured grace and wears his suit like a second skin. Honestly, the way he carries himself, he could almost pass for French. The hardships of war will never yellow him. I think it makes him stronger, like the gritty cowboy or detective hero in some American film, dressed in white and preordained to win at the end.

I usually get what I want in Casablanca. I'd wanted him, and I'd gotten him--so to speak. It serves me right for not watching more foreign cinema. I should have known: you can't rope in the hero; you have to catch his eye and let him lasso you.

Sascha and Yvonne have gone now; Rick is alone with his night. I shift my chair a little forward and let it scrape against the stone.

Rick pauses midway through lighting his cigarette, and looks over, seeing me at last.

"Hello Rick. How extravagant you are, throwing away women like that. Someday they may be scarce."

Rick raises his brow, apparently unconcerned.

He pulls a chair up with me and sits arms and knees spread in the body language of unfettered communication. Again I ask him the same questions everyone wants to know. Again I get amusing evasions in return. That's Rick: on the surface so apparently open, but afterward you realize he has given you nothing at all.

What he left me with was nothing, but my mind planted the memories and those seeds have sprouted and grown. Of course, it's still nothing; one cannot make matter out of naught; that is simple physics. But at night in my dreams--and in day when my mind wanders, after one too many brandies or one too few afternoon delights--those derivations of memory seem so real.

Sometimes we are naked, skin to skin, moving oiled and needy against each other. Sometimes I am between his lips, swollen to impossible proportions, making love to his mouth until I spew great gallons down his throat. Sometimes he rims me and fingers me for hours--always holding me just a hair's breadth away and aching on the brink.

My favorite dream is when I am making love to him. He lies on my bed in only his shirt and jacket, thighs spread wide apart and waiting. I come to him and his face dissolves in pleasure; the lines of care fall away and he lies helpless before me. His shaft curves up, red and veined against his belly. Mine pokes out straight ahead and aims itself directly for him. The thoughts of what I will do to him arouse us both and both our bodies twitch in expectation as I stroke myself to maximal preparation.

I stand between his legs and watch as I enter him over and over with neither word nor warning. I love to watch his face, but I wish I could see his rear.

I never get to see his rear.

The vision that haunts me most is when he enters me. It's so real it hurts. I think that is the only pain I have ever felt in a dream. Sometimes he comes and sometimes he does not, but in these unreal memories, I never do. Instead I wake with my heart hammering and my body crying for release. My genitals need to orgasm, but there is no desire in my soul and touching myself invariably only makes matters worse. Usually I rise and placate myself with brandy, or cold water, or whichever woman happens to be in my bed until I can sleep again.

In all fairness, it is my own fault that I have nothing more. I saw to that efficiently enough. Had I the ability to go back to that day and live it over, I would do it all quite differently.

In 1915, I made my first kill. He was a young Turkish scout. I shot him in the belly. He did not die, but writhed in the mud before me calling out words in a foreign tongue. I watched frozen until Henri came from behind me and finished him with his bayonet.

I learned then that some things cannot be undone, only dealt with for whatever they may become.

All in all, I think Rick and I have dealt quite well; most days I have no complaint. But at night when I wake to that dream and that sweat and that unbearable throb in my scrotum, I would give almost anything to go back and redo that one day.

 

 

 

 

Emil has come out from his roulette wheel in a state of significant agitation. He is saying something about gambling winnings needing to be paid out.

Rick stands. As always he is unruffled and controlled. "I'll get it from the safe."

Emil tugs his collar. "I'm so upset, Monsieur Rick."

Rick claps his back. "Forget it, Emil; things like that happen all the time."

I drain my glass and rise to follow him back inside. Things do happen indeed.

"I'm awfully sorry," says Emil.

I know the feeling, my lad.

 

* * *

 

The dream I have after closing time that night is not a new one. We are in a cafe overlooking the beach. I cannot be sure if it is Toulon or Casablanca, but it has the feel of home.

Rick is in his undershirt. "The sun feels so good," he says.

"Mm. Let me oil your back," I say.

He pulls his shirt off and turns his back to me. I still can't see his rear.

His back is broad and strong, an unbroken expanse of skin. There is oil on my hands and I begin to spread it slowly. My hands move over him in hypnotic circles. My eyes follow my fingers, the manicured nails. I watch entranced as I make him moan to the rhythm of my touch. I fight the urge to fall upon him with my mouth and wonder why I bother; after all, is this not a dream?

Perhaps the fight is the better part of the excitement.

Rick turns around and he is naked, as am I. I slide a hand up his chest and he pulls me down on top. We are on the cafe table, but then we are on the seashore. The stony beach should hurt my back with his weight full on top of me, but it does not.

There are some benefits to the unreal.

I lay my cock against his and leave it there. My attention turns entirely to his mouth. I wrap my arms around him and kiss him for all I'm worth. My tongue works its way inside of him, down to places that could never be reached any other way. He is hot and virile beneath my palms and murmurs words of passion and desire that I never thought to hear him say.

Those words stir things within me that I never thought to feel again.

I wrap my hand around his cock. It's too big; I should not be able to circle it with just one hand, but in the dream I can. I watch his face and body as I give him pleasure and I keep my mouth on his. I think how odd it is that I can hear him so clearly as he whispers to me what to do.

I speed my strokes in accordance to his needs and when he shoots his scentless, tasteless load over my hands and face some distant part of me cries in disappointment that this is but a dream.

Nonetheless, I wake with the sheets wet, exquisitely sensitive between my legs, both sated and dismayed by the potency of my imagination.

My back creaks as I rise to wash. I must put a stop to this nonsense. I am far too old for this sort of thing.

 

 

* * *

 

It is not good for me to spend too much time alone. Fortunately, young ladies with paperwork difficulties are plentiful and it is seldom necessary for me to do so. The next night I return to the cafe with the Brandel's. Or rather I should say I return with Annina Brandel and her husband Jan accompanies her.

Annina has not yet withered and fallen. At nineteen she is fresh and full of youthful vim. The ineffable glow of childhood and all its joyful possibilities still shines about her face while every other part of her radiates womanhood--and all of the glorious possibilities therein.

Their papers said that they have been married eight weeks. That is certainly time enough. Perhaps there is another reason for that radiant glow and their urgent haste to depart and make a home.

No matter. Whatever the reason, she is beautiful and full of life. She is also not nave and she is most determined to obtain passage to Lisbon, whatever the price may be.

Annina is clearly the brains of the operation. Jan is not so terribly swift. He is under the impression that we have come tonight so he can gamble their small savings into passage to freedom. She kisses him and watches for a few throws of the wheel.

She slides sideways to me and touches my sleeve. The look on her face is not one of sadness; I could not describe it, but it occurs to me that Jan is a fortunate man indeed--far more so than I. "If I do this thing, Captain, how do I know that you will keep your word?"

I suppress the reflex to bristle when my integrity is questioned. I have my own utterly unblemished form of honor; my word is my solemn vow. It has to be. The only way one can sustain prosperity in corruption is by being utterly reliable in ones improper affairs. The words of Marshal Petain and his exhortation from Vichy flash unbidden in my brain, _"Je tiens mes promesses meme celles des autres."_

On the other hand, these are highly questionable times.

In the converse, Rick's word is gospel to the refugees, but no one goes to him for aid. He is renown for his assertion that he has no agenda, including his own advancement, and so he is presumed to have no reason to lie--or to help. It makes him extraordinarily useful in his own way. I suggest that she consult with someone who knows me--Monsieur Rick perhaps.

She nods and turns back to her husband. "If it comes to that, I will."

There is a good reason that Bulgaria is famous for rose oil and not for gambling. Jan has no strategy except to hope; it is clear that it will not take long to end this charade.

My groin begins to burgeon at the thought, for it has fervent hopes for this evening as well.

Annina's pretty face sags a little with each little stack of chips that are swept away. I take my cigarettes and leave the gambling hall. I do not particularly care to observe this part. This is how women wither. I am not worried; it will not affect Annina tonight, but still I do not care to watch.

I light a cigarette and survey the people. To my surprise Annina has followed me out into the main cafe. I did expect her to hold out a little longer than this.

The look upon her face is most revealing. It is not necessary for me to ask, but appearances must be upheld. "How is lady luck treating you?"

Her face falls further.

"Aw, too bad." I touch her sleeve.

I nod toward Rick's table. "You will find him over there." I start towards the bar, but then I change my mind. This I do want to hear. Instead I maneuver myself behind an arcade near the table and attune my ear so as to hear.

Rick is completely neutral on everything--our arrangement included. Were it not for the very existence of the _Cafe Americain_ , it would be as if the thing had never happened at all. For the first few months I considered that a fortunate circumstance, but now I sometimes I am overcome with my own need to know what it is that he thinks of me.

At Rick's table they converse. She asks, "What kind of a man is Captain Renault?"

"Just like any other man, only more so," says Rick.

I smile; I could not concur more. I have always thought that Rick was a most intelligent and perceptive individual; it is agreeable to hear it confirmed.

"No, no, I mean: is he trustworthy? Is his word?" asks Annina.

"Now just a minute; who told you to ask me that?"

"He did. Captain Renault did."

"I thought so. Where's your husband?"

"At the roulette table--trying to win enough for our exit visas, but of course he is losing."

"How long have you been married?"

"Eight weeks. We come from Bulgaria. Oh, things are very bad there, Monsieur. The devil has the people by the throat. So Jan and I we...we did not want our children to grow up in such a country."

"So you decided to go to America." Rick rubs his forehead and exhales a plume of dirty smoke.

"Yes, but we have not much money and travelling is so expensive and difficult. It was much more than we thought to get here. And then Captain Renault sees us--and he is so kind. He wants to help us."

"Yes, I'll bet," says Rick, dryly eyeing her bosom.

"He tells me he can give us an exit visa...but we have no money."

"Does he know that?"

"Oh yes."

"And he's still willing to help you?"

"Yes, Monsieur."

"And you want to know...?" Rick's voice trails off.

"Will he keep his word?"

Rick looks down at the table. There is a heartbeat of a pause--the barest hesitation. "He always has." His tone is certain as he toys with his cigarette.

I wonder if he remembers it the same way that I do.

 

 

 

 

It was August 1940 when Rick arrived in Casablanca, apparently to stay, with a Black man in tow him and a valise full of papers from _La Belle Aurora_ on how to run a nightclub. It was not more than a week later that he arrived in my office with a crisp linen suit and the officially posted fee for a business license.

The Vichy government has many better things with which to concern itself than the humdrum administrative issues of unoccupied territories. Those details became my affair, and as such there had been a slight adjustment in the fee schedule. Sometimes when I clarified the new situation, there was a bit of a scene, but not with Rick. I had pegged him for a practical man and indeed he proved the point.

Rick puffed his cigarette. "If I had that kind of money, I wouldn't have to open a business at all. Maybe we can arrange something when the money begins coming in."

I smiled. "Monsieur Blaine, as the top justice official here in Casablanca, making private arrangements with me for when the money comes in is a standard condition of operation. What we are discussing is compensation for the present, not in the future."

Any experienced negotiator will attest that as long as both sides continue to talk, the potential for a solution remains. We both sat still at my desk, eyes locked.

"What did you have in mind?" he asked.

I let my eyes drift down his body. "That is a nice suit. From Paris, is it? It is so difficult to find nice things here these days."

He started. He may not have been twice my size, but was not far from it. "I don't think it'll fit you."

I suppressed the impulse to laugh. My sources did not tell me how long Rick had been living in Paris, but I presumed it was not very. Americans never failed to surprise me. While their country bears the world standard for personal freedom, they still constrain their sexual pleasure within ridiculously provincial notions. It was a curious dichotomy indeed.

"Let's see, shall we?" I folded my hands to wait and regarded his body in anticipation.

Rick set down his cigarette, stood and removed the jacket. He passed it to me across the desk.

I remained seated and laid the jacket neatly aside. "Continue," I said, ignoring the jacket completely. Despite myself, I licked my lips.

I was correct. Provincial or not, he was a thoroughly practical man. The confusion left his face and again he was all business. "And what is my assurance that I get what I want--after you're finished with what you want? We can't exactly put this in a contract."

"No. Considering the current climate in Vichy, that would hardly benefit either of us. But I am afraid you are rather badly overestimating your own charms, Monsieur. Casablanca is my city and it does me no good whatsoever to make enemies here, whereas influential allies in the business community are always useful. You are quite free to accept or decline, but I am offering you an arrangement that I think may be advantageous--in at least one respect--to each of us." I stood and unbuttoned my collar.

Rick inclined his head. " _At least_ one respect? Now you overestimate yourself."

"That remains to be decided." I pulled the paperwork from my cabinet and laid it on my desk, filling in the top few lines. "The only question of importance is: how badly do you want this permit?"

He unfastened his pants and slid them down. "Let's get this over with," he said.

I touched myself behind my desk. He really was most attractive.

He undressed methodically setting each article of clothing aside as to not have it sullied or wrinkled. He stood before me naked. "Well?"

I dropped to my knees and took him in my mouth.

It was midday, mid summer and unpleasantly hot outside. His crotch was ripe with sweat and musk and the scent of masculine power now completely at my mercy filled my nose. I grabbed him by the thighs and pressed my face flat against him letting my chin nudge his balls as my mouth worked his only partially reluctant cock.

I have never placed fellatio high on the list of my many skills. I seldom practice and most often am afforded better things to do. Nonetheless, I am French and we French are natural lovers. It took my tongue lips and teeth a very short while to remind Rick of this.

Or perhaps there is something to the theory that receiving even poor fellatio is far preferable to receiving none at all. Either way, his breathing changed and his hand went to the back of my head. I could not look up, but suspected his eyes were closed. He nearly filled my mouth now and he rocked his hips, perhaps to hurry the end.

This was not what I had intended. I needed him harder than this for my purposes, so I let him continue within my throat. It was not unpleasant; I imagined another tongue and mouth doing to me as I was now doing to him. I reached a hand into my pants and fingered my cock as he moaned. I could not quite touch myself as I wanted to, leaving the not unwelcome pressure to build inside my innards. My clothing chafed against my excitement even more, and soon I was rocking in synchronization with his moans.

At the first taste of salt, I pulled away. I smiled in triumph at his little groan.

Rick trembled against my desk, his cock red and swollen, curving up and out. I had either underestimated his size or my own capacities. I had to congratulate myself. Rick was quite a mouthful for anyone.

I put three fingers on the base and tested it for firmness. He thrust his hips and tried to press himself into my hand. His slit glistened wet with both my liquids and fresh leakage of his own. He was a better sport than I had dared to count on, but that should be no surprise. Anyone who would fight for hopeless causes had to able to take some enjoyment even in the losing.

"Not yet," I said. "Touch yourself, but just enough to keep it hard. I want to see how hard you can make it for me."

He did as I instructed and I watched him prepare himself for me as I undressed.

My own cock sprang up against my belly the moment it was freed. I stroked it a couple times for good measure, then stepped forward and pressed my body full against him. I dug my fingers into his nipples and probed his mouth for a kiss. He sighed and leaned his hands back against the desk. I grabbed his wrists and placed his hand firmly on my rear before returning attention to his nipples.

His face was still early-day smooth, for which I was very grateful. There are few pleasures more sensual than a well-executed kiss, but I am afraid that a beard--be it on man or woman--destroys the experience for me entirely.

To my surprise, there was no resistance in his muscles, but neither was there interest in his eyes. He tasted of coffee and tobacco, a fine cultured blend suitable for the finest gentlemen in the finest clubs. I probed my tongue further into him as if to lick every trace of that taste from his mouth. I don't suppose it is physically possible to lick another mouth clean, but it does not detract from the joy of trying.

I moved my rump beneath his hands to feel his strength behind me, around me. His cock pressed into my belly, brushing against mine when I moved just so. His body was held stiff and straight, but he did not fight anything I tried. It occurred to me that he was stronger than I was; he could stop me any time he decided to, but he would not.

The knowledge that he would not intoxicated me beyond belief. Any conscious thought rapidly vanished under its influence.

"The sofa," I ordered, pulling away from his mouth. I motioned to the leather couch that I had had brought in for just this sort of special administrative situation.

It had been a very long time for me since I had had this opportunity. While war might by design tune men to be more virile, it also takes the most desirable ones far from neutral territories such as French Morocco. While women may be my preferred diversion, I have cultivated a taste for the finer things in life--things of any genre. Rick Blaine qualified in at least two or three.

A well-sculpted man allowed for certain indulgences that a woman--whatever her other varied charms may include--did not.

I intended to indulge myself today.

I leaned over the arm of the sofa and pulled my knees up as far as they would go. "There's a jar in my desk drawer," I said. I heard him scoff something about homos, but I was beyond pride or shame. I wanted this too much.

I closed my eyes and listened to the sound of him slicking himself for me. The slap of hand on skin made my testicles throb and I oozed against the couch. When he touched me and the cool salve tantalized my most tender nerves, I bit the leather in a vain effort to quash the sound in my throat. My gland ached to be relieved and I felt my pelvis thrust without my direction in anxious anticipation of the joys to come.

The knob of him pressed against me and I chilled in momentary fear. I had not expected him to be gentle under these conditions, but if he were truly angry he had the potential to cause me serious hurt. We hedonists know that there is a fine line between pain and pleasure and a place where any carnal stimulation just feels inordinately good, but he was much larger and stronger than I, and if I had pushed him too far--

Suddenly he was inside me and I lost the ability to think.

We rode that line between pain and pleasure. If my voice could have formed words they would have made no sense. As he pushed in, my mind screamed for him to stop; when he pulled back it begged wantonly for more. I was utterly delirious with sensation and as he increased his tempo out became in and in became out and all I knew was the single marvelous mingled pleasure of one body at the mercy of another.

I came in hard spurts, so many I thought they would either never stop or kill me when they did. I cried out to a god I thought had left behind many years ago as my body purged itself onto the leather and I lay drained and utterly replete in my own emissions.

I barely had energy to shudder as he pulled out of me at last.

When the world reformed, he stood beside my head--naked--his penis standing still erect before my eyeballs and a pen in his extended hand. He dropped a paper toward the sofa seat in front of me. It wafted down like a falling leaf.

"Sign here." He thrust the pen into my face.

I took it and signed my name, not in the precise lettering that was my standard, but recognizable and quite respectable under the conditions I thought.

I managed to pull myself fully upon the sofa. I watched him dress, forcing his still turgid penis into place.

"Thanks," he said. "Be seeing you around."

He shrugged on his jacket and left with the permit in his pocket.

In Morocco a midday nap is not uncommon practice. Some good ideas these Africans have. I closed my eyes for just for a little while, very glad indeed to have accepted this posting.

 

 

 

Annina's plaintive voice drifts over the crowd and pulls me back to the present. She has a second question for him. "Oh, Monsieur, you are a man. If someone loved you very much --so that your happiness was the only thing that she wanted in the world--and she did a bad thing to make certain of it, could you forgive her?"

Rick looks up and locks my eyes with his. He does not search the room. It occurs to me that he must have spotted me long before. Very little gets past Rick.

I wonder what else he knows?

"Nobody ever loved me that much," he says, drilling my eyes without mercy.

I spin around and hurry back to the gaming room, willing the hot flush to go down from my face, wishing for the thousandth fruitless time for the chance to live that one day over again.

 

* * *

 

I am disappointed, but not terribly surprised, to hear of Jan Brandel's sudden streak of good fortune at roulette instigated by Rick whispering over his shoulder. Annina takes my hand with happy vigor, which was not at all how I had planned for this evening to end. Ah well, there are other women. Sex can be had easily. I have greater concerns than this.

She leaves me and stretches up to hug Rick in a close embrace. "I'm just a lucky guy," Rick says, but he is not looking at Annina. He is looking straight over her shoulder to me.

Did I mention that Rick is considered an enigma? Sascha, Emil, and even Carl--Rick's cafe manager--are all at a loss for why he would do such an expensive thing. I alone know the answer. It makes me feel quite special, but not in a good way at all.

"Why do you interfere with my little romances?" I ask him, the disappointment in my gonads overpowering the sensibilities of my brain--and not for the first time, I must admit.

"Consider it a gesture to love," he says.

The answer does not improve my mood.

 

* * *

 

When Laszlo's display erupts, Major Strasser orders me to close the cafe. It is an unfair order and not in the best interests of my city. If the people do not have Rick's cafe to come to and vent the emotions of the day, it will either happen in random places throughout my alleys, or build to some massive calamity that would not reflect well upon me at all. The order was stupid, counterproductive and issued solely to assuage the Major's wounded pride.

I may not know what I think of the war or Vichy, but I am becoming ever more certain what I think of Major Strasser.

Rick looks to me, but there is nothing I can do. I shake my head. Rick will understand. He has fled America and he has fled Paris. I do not know exactly why, but I am certain that he realizes the wisdom of living to fight another day.

Of course he does. When he comes to my office with his plan to flee, it is no surprise at all.

Mlle. Lund, now that is a surprise. Not that he would fall in love, no, Ricky is all man, and what man could help but love such beauty? But that, I think, is my point. I cannot see Rick tied down to a woman--any woman. He is too much man, too virile, too independent for that sort of life.

He is far too much like me.

That he would double-cross Laszlo is a second surprise. I had never considered Rick to be devious. It assuages my conscience a little.

"I'm going to miss you Ricky. Apparently you are the only man in Casablanca with even less scruples than I."

He shrugs it off. A few hours later I am looking into the barrel of his gun with the proverbial egg running down my face in torrents.

Really, I am much too old for this sort of thing.

The miscalculation takes a moment to process--the humiliation at being outfoxed a moment more. It is not until I dial the phone to Strasser that the significance of this moment occurs to me. He is giving up everything: his club, his woman, his safety, and--not least of all--an enormous amount of money to see that Laszlo reaches safety.

It was something the boy who left Toulon in 1916 would have gladly done, but this is no idealistic boy.

Did I mention that Rick is considered an enigma? I have admired him for more than a year, and yet I don't believe that I know him at all. My God, I wish I'd recognized my chance to earn his trust.

Did I mention that there are no second chances in war?

 

* * *

 

The fatal gunshot comes as no surprise, after all this is war and even majors may fall. The sound of the siren arriving right after is unfortunate, but most decidedly not a surprise. Those are my men, trained by me; I would expect no less.

Rick is looking at me. Is that a plea I see in his eye?

I make my choice. "Round up the usual suspects."

It does not feel so much like granting a favor, but more like a debt repaid.

It feels like the blessed absolution I remember from my youth. Some things, indeed, are in the soul.

My underlings salute and drive off. I don't suppose I shall see any of them again. Certainly it would be in our best interests if I do not.

I kick the Vichywasser bottle and am shocked the violence of the motion and at how good the defiance makes me feel.

At night, now that the city is cloaked and the breeze blows in from Europe, I can almost taste France with every breath.

There is no doubt in my mind that I have finally done the right thing.

The plane is in the air to Lisbon and we are on the ground with one very dead Nazi and a sword of Damocles hanging by the very finest of threads. All in all, this is not a good situation for me, but some things cannot be undone. Soldiers must learn to live with that truth.

I turn to Rick. After all, we are both in this together. I have seen to that.

There is a vehemence in his eyes that I have not seen there before. Emboldened, I make my suggestion. Brazzaville: The Heart of Africa--where the wild things live and the Resistance is rumored to be over 5,000 strong.

"Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship." Rick puts his arm around my shoulders.

We walk across the tarmac and make plans for our escape. It is a chilly early December night, yet I am warm where his arm rests upon me and also someplace inside that I had almost forgotten existed there.

Some things may not be undone, but it is surprising what other things might.

"For a second I really thought you were going to turn me over," Rick says.

"For a second, so did I."

Rick lifts his forehead. "I don't know what turned you patriot all of the sudden, but I'm grateful for the timing."

"I didn't do it for the war," I said.

I looked at him through the side of my eyes, trying to gauge his response. There was none. As I suspected, Rick was already well ahead of me.

"That kind of sentiment only leads to trouble. Don't get me wrong, I'm still grateful, but you might have been better off with what you've built in Casablanca. Life on the run isn't much fun--trust me I know."

"I owed you a favor," I said.

"Favor?"

"From our meeting--about your permit."

Rick shrugged. "Like you said, we both got what we wanted; it was a fair trade."

"Back then I thought I did, but later as I came to know you... I always wondered if I hadn't started things off like that..."

Rick puffed his cigarette. "Is that what you thought? No, you never took anything from me because when I came to Casablanca I had nothing to give. It could never go anywhere for the same reason."

"But now?"

Rick shrugged.

"Because of the woman?"

"Show some respect, Louis; that's not 'the woman'. That is Mrs. Victor Laszlo."

"Of course."

Rick slides his arm down from my shoulder, and yet a warmth remains.

 

* * *

 

The dawn finds us on a train well on our way to the Congo. After the openness of desert life, the sleeper car is small for one and inane for two, and yet the accommodations are quite acceptable to me.

It occurs to me that this is St. Nicholas Day--the celebration of the saint of unconditional generosity and gifts. I have not celebrated it since my childhood, but I think this may be the year to start. I watch Rick's face as he sleeps, his lips as they rise and fall, and I find that I must shift my thighs where I stand to ease my own discomfort.

Did I once say I do not find men beautiful? I may have been mistaken. How very unlike me that is.

The sands of Algeria steam by our window and I turn my attention to them. It is not my amusement of choice at the moment, but I suspect it is for the best for now. It has become decidedly warm in here. I release the latch and crack the window to breathe in the chill morning air.

I still do not know what the winds of war will bring, but for the first time in a long time I find that I care very much indeed.

The train steams southeast--into the beautiful dawn.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
